Persephone
by SymphonyinA
Summary: Fearful of forgetting the wonderful moments of Christine's presence, Erik journals them, reflecting his own hopes and thoughts. Leroux, canon-era.
1. Chapter 1: Visit 1

It is a strange thing to write happiness. I was unaware such a word existed until now. Oh, but not now, no. Now was misery. Now I keep glancing at the clock in desperation for the silver hands to turn faster, faster! How slowly they turn, as if they wish to cause me agony. Perhaps they do. After all, the world enjoys that activity immensely.

Would she return, though? Would she? She had promised to, and she bore my ring. My ring! Imagine! My gold band upon her perfect white finger. I would buy her an exquisite diamond when we married, one that would turn the heads of every woman in Paris.

Every woman ought to be jealous of Christine. She is the bravest of women, able to look upon me without the barest trace of fear. She is also the kindest being that ever existed, caring for her poor, unhappy Erik like she loves him! Of her beauty, no painter could ever capture the bright blue of her eyes, the soft pink of her smile, and her hair like morning sunbeams.

She could love me, though, truly. One day she could. She would learn to. After all, she had said that she did not even see my face anymore. That was all that had kept me from love: my face.

To be loved by such a sweet being as Christine, how wonderful it is! I doubt most can feel as exquisite, pure happiness as I. Theirs is tainted by endless forms of it. They have mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and gifts and sweets. Christine is my only happiness. She fills my dreams now, dreams and not nightmares! I have gone all my life without the taste of a sun-kissed dream.

What a dream I had experienced the previous night! It washed away all the nightmares, every last one, until I can hardly remember them. What a small bit of happiness can do to sorrow! Why, someone needs to learn how to package it. Ah, but then, there are sweets, yes. I find no happiness in those, though.

But the dream, oh, the dream was of a meadow! It was coated in flowers of every type imaginable, even ones born of my own unconscious imagination. The sun was blinding, the air cool, and there were birds chirping in a few scattered trees. Christine sat beneath one, her pale complexion protected by the leafy shade. She wore a dress the color of the sky, and sat upon a red-and-white blanket, with a basket before her. She said to me, "Erik, I love you." Only that! Then the dream dissolved into terror, but imagine! If only she could say that in reality, I would certainly die of happiness.

I ought to listen for her now. She had told me she would come by after church. She is so pure! The other chorus girls rarely go, as they see no point in it. Christine, however, is devout. I do believe there must be a god, and I do hope- _I know_ \- that there is a heaven for Christine.

...

She asked me to sing for her! How darling she is. I was only too happy to oblige, and I observed her reactions. She was in rapture. Her blue eyes were at their widest, until I feared they might swallow me whole. Oh, to live inside their blue depths, how wonderful that would be!

Then she cried when the piece ended. I asked her why, and she said she was thinking about her poor Erik, and how lonely I must have been without her. No one had ever cared about my loneliness before, save the daroga, but not like this. Why, she _must_ love me! Had she missed me, then, too? I asked her this, and she replied that she wished I could sing her to sleep at night. The angel! I insisted she could have as much music as she wanted whilst with me, and she promised to visit every week. She even said she might stop by when she liked. Oh, the thought made me weep for joy. She did not complain of my tears, but allowed me to comfort myself in her skirts. My mother had never let me touch her, but she had afforded me her skirts on occasion. Christine permitted it always! Her skirts were always soft, as well, whereas my mother's were coarse and unyielding. Christine's were like woven water.

To my horror, however, upon recovering myself and rising before her, I found her skirts damp with my wretched tears. I decided I would purchase a new dress for her, perhaps a soft lavender, to pay for my carelessness. She made no comment upon the droplets, and even told me she wished I did not cry so much, out of pity. It made her sad, she said.

Our tears both made each other sad! That is a sure form of love, is it not? Regardless, I worshiped her the remainder of our time. We spent three hours together, in perfect bliss. I counted her smiles: twelve! Twelve smiles, all in three hours! Surely she loves me if I can make her smile? I had never made a woman smile before her.

Alas, she glanced at the clock that I had been, at intervals, winding a few minutes back at a time to avoid her notice. It had finally reached three hours of her time with me.

I could not help but weep for our parting. The house had become bright and warm in her presence, almost as if it were above ground, and I knew that when she left, it would be dark and cold, and return to its former tomb-like state.

The perfect angel allowed me ten more minutes of her presence, thankfully. I spent that time telling her, in the midst of my tears, how wonderful she was. I praised her kindness, her bravery, and I thought of every beautiful aspect of her and described them all in the most lovely phrases I could think up. Love had made me into a poet. I could not help crooning words of love into her skirts, perhaps repeating the same part over and over, admiring how perfectly it fit the feelings in my heart.

She did separate from me eventually. I rowed her across the lake, the one she called magical, and deposited her on the other side. She bade me goodbye, promising to return as soon as she could.

I feel as if I had been dead for the entirety of my existence, and she had brought me back to life. When she left, I returned to the grave.


	2. Chapter 2: Visit 2

She is late. Why is she late? Does she not want to see me? Perhaps she does not love me after all!

I am waiting at the edge of the lake for her, hoping that I am mistaken. She must love me! I have no one else. Has she forgotten? How could she forget her poor Erik? Has someone delayed her? They have plenty of people to see! Why must they take my one person and keep her?

How strange that she calls the waters I now pace beside magical, when they are so cold and dark. She sees the good in all things, even Erik.

It is five minutes now. Why has she not come? Does she not know the agony that grips my heart when I am not with her? What misery these past days have been! She apologized to me, during our lessons, that she could not visit sooner. The rehearsals take far too much of her time away, and her benefactress. She longs to see that woman and calls her her mother, when she has no relation to her. I wish Christine had no one but me, and nothing to do but remain with me always, brightening up the dark chambers beneath the earth.

...

She was weeping and trembling when I rowed across the lake to her. I had almost been upset with her for her tardiness, but she told me, tearfully, that she had wanted to come sooner and been delayed. She hardly ever lied, so I believed her, and it was also far easier to do so than to doubt. It is nice to have someone who does not lie.

I had bought her flowers. She had seemed bewildered by my first declaration of love, my turning the drawing room into a garden, so now I gave her far fewer baskets. Only fourteen of them, that was a reasonable amount. I placed them on end tables and her nightstand, upon her dresser, then around the house wherever it could use a bit of color.

She glanced around at them as if I had brought her into a delightful fairytale. She would not cease thanking me for the flowers, and admiring how they brightened the house. She said they were good for me, so I would not be so melancholy. If only she knew that she was the only remedy for my misery.

I had purchased little cakes and sweets for her as well, as she had a fondness for them. It was good for her to indulge, as when she had first arrived here, her eyes had been the largest part of her. Her grief had manifested in her little frame until the radiance of her that I so admired now had been dull. Now, however, though her eyes were still wide and mesmerizing, she had become much fuller. It was good that her grief had faded, and I dared to think I might have made it so.

As she took a few polite bites of a cake, I could not help pretending to myself that she was my wife _now_. When she was my wife, as I was determined she would be (I could not possibly lose her), she would never leave. She would remain with me always. I could buy a nice, normal house, exactly how she wanted it, and we would live there together. She would never be distracted by anything, no rehearsals or benefactress, because a wife is there for her husband alone. I would make her the happiest woman in Paris. She would have anything that she wanted, and never be bored. That is the husband's occupation: adoring and entertaining his wife. I would never need to work, either. I have enough to live comfortably on for the rest of my life, and when I die, as I must die before her, she would receive an enormous sum so that she never need lift a finger then, either.

It was good when she read. That was my favorite activity, because I read in the armchair beside her. I would prefer to be at her feet, but that would likely cause my tears of joy to stain her skirt. When she read, I did not truly, however. I imagined further that she was my wife and that we were reading together in perfect contentment. I had to be careful not to catch her gaze, though, or else she might suspect. She does not like the idea of marriage, but that is to be expected. She thinks a husband would silence her and keep her from joy, when I would only make her even happier, as well as allowing her to speak whenever she likes.

She only has a career at the opera because she loves to sing, not because she loves the stage. She is too shy for that. Due to this, a marriage between us would make her quite happy. She could sing as much as she wanted as my wife- all the time, in fact. She would never need to worry as she does now, about finances and her career; she would be allowed to do all that she wanted. All that she wants is to sing and be loved. All women must want to be loved, or else why would they marry? She simply must not think her husband would love her enough, but I would worship her.

I fear she may find this journal of mine. She is insatiably curious, which is amusing, but difficult to protect her from in my house. She is, however, obedient, unlike Eve. If I am careful to tell her what she may not do, she will not do it. If I omit a guidance, however, she would indulge her curiosity without a second thought. In a normal house, she could do that all she wanted, but for now she must be careful. I must take very good care of Christine. Women are fragile creatures who are easily excitable, though she is far more contained than them. Still, I must be careful with her.

We read for quite some time. She enjoys it as much as I. When I requested for us to play music, however, she set aside her book immediately and went to join me at the piano. I did not wish to critique her then, as I find it far less enjoyable than it was at first. I only wanted us two to sing, and that we did.

I cannot describe the wonder that is her voice. The sound is pure as glass and sweet as honey. She puts her entire heart into it, and as she has the largest heart of anyone on this cruel earth, the music she creates has never been known before. I wish she could sing only for me, as I appreciate her far more than the dead-eared Parisians. As my wife, she would never sing for anyone else.

After our musical bliss, I found myself unable to bear the thought of her leaving. She would have to stay until tomorrow morning, then I could take her up for rehearsals. Instead, she became quite upset by that. I asked her why, and she said that her mother would be missing her. Her benefactress knew very well she was with an angel! Why should she have any say in this? I told Christine so, and she began to cry. She would not explain why she was crying, and eventually she consented after I had pleaded with her for some time. I made her an excellent dinner that ought to have appeased her, and she retired early for bed. The fact that she was so near at night kept my nightmares away, and I had more dreams of her in meadows and other lovely scenes. Once, she was in a tea shop, and I had tea with her. In the dreams, however wonderful, we never spoke to each other, yet I did not mind. No one else ever appears in my dreams save her. In my nightmares, everyone appears.

In the morning, it was to my great distress that she did not rise on time. I dared knock on her door, even though I was not permitted in her bedroom. She told me she was not feeling well. It was no more than a cold, so I could not help but be delighted with the opportunity to care for her.

I actually knew how to tend to an unwell person, though I had never before. She needed rest, mostly, which was simple enough, but I also made her teas to calm her symptoms, as well as my own remedies. I made her soup for lunch, and it was then that she said she felt well enough to return home. I would have insisted she stay, as I was quite enjoying tending to her, but she immediately began to thank me for my splendid care of her. I was lost to her kindness, and soon she was in the boat with me, being returned to the other side.

I had never known my home to require anyone else. I had been quite enough, and any trespassers were entirely unwelcome. Now, however, I know that a house is only complete with a wife.

It is strange that I only now know what true loneliness feels like, when I have been lonely all my life, and unaware.


	3. Chapter 3: Thoughts on the Vicomte

I had hoped not to mention the vicomte in my writing, as it only upsets me, but I find avoiding the subject of him impossible now. He is always with Christine when I am not. His engagement to her is fake, and I know he must ache with sorrow that she is not his, which is good, but he simply spends too much time with her. He will leave in a month or so, though, so he is harmless. Christine is mine.

When he leaves, I will persuade her into marriage. Surely if I prepare a house, and show her how wonderful her life will be, she will understand. She _must_ understand. If she does not, I can be patient, but only for so long. I love her too much to wait much longer.

I have been waiting for her to return. She promised to come stay for a night to help her rehearse. She always wants her voice to be perfect, though when I did ask her why she sings, she said it was because it brings joy to others. It certainly brings me joy, a sentiment unknown to me before her.

In her absence, I have fallen back into my nightmares. Three nights after she had left, however, I was visited by the most pleasant dream I have ever experienced. Christine and I were in her dressing room, which was filled to the brim with flowers. She asked me to help her prepare. I went mute in wonder as I brushed her gold hair and helped her pin it in place. She powdered her cheeks, dissolving her freckles, then splashed bright rouge upon them. I see no difference in her when she is dressed for the stage or for a normal day; she is always the most beautiful woman that ever was.

Then, in the dream, I wished her luck. She giggled, her shoulders trembling with adorable laughter.

"You're coming with me," she said.

I could not believe my ears, even in the dream. She pulled me out onto the bright stage. I gave a start for a moment, as I wore no mask, but then found, to my delight, that the audience was empty seats. It was just Christine and I. We sang duets together, and she was so happy. I had never seen her that happy before, even though it was a dream.

The scene dissolved, as it always did, but I kept thinking of it all the following day. I found inspiration from it, and spent the entire day doing nothing but putting my happiness into song. How miserable my Don Juan had been! Now I was determined to finish it in euphoric melodies, with no pain at all. The pain was gone now. Perhaps not entirely, but it is strange how only a little bit of happiness can make everything else fade away.

...

I am becoming upset with Christine. I told her she could play at her engagement with the boy, to make him miserable, but she is playing it too well. It is almost as if she loves _him_. She told me she only pitied him, and wanted to be kind to him before he left. I do not believe her yet, not this time. After all, he is handsome, and wealthy. She may love him. It is more than likely that she does.

But she could never marry him. His brother would never permit it, even though Christine deserves to be a comtesse or duchess, or even a queen. She could never marry him. He is also leaving on his expedition soon, which I must remind myself of. Once he is gone, Christine will forget about him. What does that boy know of music, anyway? How could she love someone who does not understand her passion? When she is no longer distracted by his pretty face, surely she will see that she was blinded. Though better than all women, she one, and therefore easily swayed by physical beauty.

She is coming at five o'clock tomorrow. I have already planned the dinner we will have, and will soon leave to buy her gifts. I ordered her lavender dress as well, which took far too long to make, but is now finished. It truly is lovely. The underskirt of it is cream, and the lavender fabric is ornamented with embroidery and floral prints.

I have been looking at rings lately, unable to help myself. Something gaudy would not do for Christine, no, something elegant and pristine would suit her. A perfect little diamond would rest well upon her finger. I will propose to her with that, then how could she refuse? She is not above other women and their frivolities, is she? No, no, she twitters over gifts like all of them, in a way... I think...

...

I hate the vicomte. I hate him more than anything. I think I ought to kill him now, as he is far too headstrong and may attempt to take Christine. I cannot lose her.

...

I decided against it. When I crept up to his window, I found him sleeping, swallowed up by a large bed. He looked like a little boy. Yes, he was no more than a child, after all. How could he be of any harm to my Christine and I? He would leave, and if he did not, I would kill him later. There was no point in killing him yet, as it would only raise suspicions.

A furry shadow came over to me. I have no feelings towards animals, bad or good. They are simply there. I can appreciate the beauty of them, but often they are obnoxious and should be gotten rid of. For some reason, however, they are no fun to kill. Perhaps that is because they are innocent; perhaps it is the sharp sound they emit as they die.

I remained staring at the vicomte for quite some time. The cat stepped up onto the windowsill to observe as well. It is quite enjoyable to know that one can kill another with ease, even without doing so. I find quite the thrill in it. He did not even know I was there.

Of course, then he did wake. He sat bolt upright in his bed, his handsome features drained of color. Then he reached for a pistol, knocking over his lamp in the process. It was quite amusing to watch. I did, of course, move away from a bullet's reach, but the shadow of fur did not. The lead capped its tail, and it shrieked as it fled into the night. I chuckled and went home.


	4. Chapter 4: Visit 3

Christine was a full ten minutes early this time. I found her appearing quite well, with her blonde hair pinned up and in an emerald dress with cream folds beneath. She smiled at me, and asked me how I was. I informed her that I had been working on my Don Juan, as I needed to finish it before I could marry her. I did not include the latter, however, as she could interpret it incorrectly. She then told me she hoped I was taking good care of myself in her absence, and that she was delighted to be spending two days rehearsing with me. Any thought of the vicomte faded from my mind.

We went inside my house, which I had filled again with flowers as before. I had heard her comment on the perfume of roses as her favorite, and therefore most of the baskets and vases were of those. I had procured various colors to be sure she would be fond of them.

Darling thing that she is, she immediately complimented them. Her eyes, however, were glassy, and there was a strange little tremor in her hand. I had a sudden desire to clasp it and make it still, but I kept this inside me rather than force her to touch Death. I can still remember her little cry when I had first offered her my hand. It sickens me to think of now.

My heart leapt in remembering the dress I had bought her. I told her I had a surprise for her, and that she needed to wait patiently in the living room for me to bring her it. She smiled and nodded.

I went to retrieve it. It was in a white box with a bright blue bow. I had not understood gift-giving before, as I had never received one myself, nor had someone to give one to. Now I found it to be delightful. Perhaps when Christine and I were married, she would give me one as well, if wives do that. I am not sure of it, though, and am perfectly content to only give them to her.

When I returned to her, she had her eyes shut, her features relaxed. It confused me as to why she was not looking, and I asked her about it. She replied that it was normal to shut one's eyes in preparation for a surprise.

I told her to open them now, then. She did so, beamed in delight, and began to slide off the bow. She removed the lid and pushed aside the tissue paper. She whispered that it was lovely, yet she did not smile. I wondered why the blue in her eyes was deepening so.

My heart was sinking within me. I asked her if she liked it, and she replied that she did, but her voice quavered. She excused herself and went to hide in her room.

She exited after half an hour. Her features were alight again, and she put on the dress for me to see. The color made her radiant. She needed only dresses like this one, of fine make to compliment her beauty. What beautiful dresses I would buy her! And jewelry! It made me smile stupidly to imagine.

It seemed that the entire rest of the evening, however, that her eyes kept welling up. They never spilled over, but they were too close to it.

I asked her why she was almost crying. She shattered immediately, and I guided her into a chair so she need not tremble while standing. I begged her to tell me what was wrong. She refused to say. I became quite upset with her, enough that I shook the chair she sat upon until she finally managed out that she was afraid. She did not say what of. I demanded that she tell me immediately, as I was concerned about her. She regained her composure.

"Erik," she told me, "I fear... t-that I... I'll die."

The marrow in my bones froze. Die? Die when? She was being so vague! I asked her what she meant, and explained that she would not die soon. Then I added that, according to her religion, she would go to heaven when she did. She nodded in agreement, and whispered that she was being silly. I agreed.

I helped her rehearse all evening. I was consumed by the joy of music, the joy of her voice. I wanted to bottle up her voice so I could listen to it always! Soon I would be able to, though. When the boy left, I would marry her. There would be no waiting. I could not bear to wait any longer to never have to say goodbye to Christine again. I cannot describe my desire to be her husband! I want to surround her in beauty and music. I would quite like to hide her away from the world, but she should at least have a window to herself. She is a child of the sun. I could only keep her down here for a month at most if she is confused about the marriage. She will learn, though, very quickly when she sees my full adoration of her.

I had already spent far too much time that should have been devoted to completing my Don Juan instead to imagining our wedding ceremony. Oh, we are going to have the most wonderful wedding! I have pictured the entire ceremony. Christine will wear a long white veil with lace along the edges, then a dress with silver flowers adorning it. I have already selected it and it is being prepared to her measurements, how impatient I am! But, if need be, I may have to keep her down here for some time should she not understand how wonderful marriage is. She will consent, though. Only a little love is required at the start of marriage, and surely she has that much for me. She has shown me that through her actions. Why else would she refuse to let me wear a mask? How could she manage to visit a man she hates, either? Yes, she loves me.

The only difficulty with the wedding would be what came after. I want to buy a house for us both, but I will miss the privacy this place affords, as well as the music above, however poorly played. Eventually, perhaps once Christine has fully settled into her role, we can move into an apartment. That is more typical in Paris, and there are plenty to choose from that would be more than satisfactory.

Now my pen is getting away from preserving my memories. Oh, but daydreaming is such a lovely thing! I only now appreciate it.

Eventually we had to cease rehearsing, as Christine had become unfocused and she kept rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. I made her honey tea for her voice as she went to bed.

I attempted to amuse myself with a book, but everything was dull besides Christine. I only wanted her. Sleep meant nightmares, and I had no desire for them yet. The thought of perhaps one good dream, however, made me consent to fatigue.

As I drifted past Christine's door, I was drawn to the surface. I listened through the wood to be sure she was asleep. There was the sound of shuffling feet, as if she was pacing.

I knocked on the door, asking if she needed something to help her sleep. Her voice was high-pitched and quivering as she replied that she did not. She then bade me goodnight, saying that she hoped I would sleep well.

She is so kind. It is comforting to know I will never have to be without kindness again once she is my wife.

...

The next morning, she had not yet recovered from her behavior from yesterday. She was still speaking kindly to me, but there were tears behind her eyes. I entreated her to tell me the reason behind them, and she replied that she was upset by too many things to name. She confessed that she was anxious about the new opera she would be performing in, and I waved away these concerns. How foolish they were! I informed her that she was superior to anyone else on that stage or, indeed, anywhere. She need not fret over that.

She thanked me for my encouragement, then also added that she was concerned about my finishing my Don Juan Triumphant. I had told her I was working on it all the time when she was absent. I asked her why that upset her. She said that she thought I might be preparing to die, as I had said that before.

I barely contained the news of our marriage, as I was bursting with happiness from it. Instead, I chuckled at her and told her that that was ridiculous. I had changed my mind upon the matter. I only wanted to finish the piece so I could spend more time with her, and perhaps compose pieces in her name. She seemed to accept this explanation.

We played music at intervals throughout the day. Her pallor began to dim as time went by. She cried again later, and I cried with her, as her tears distressed me so! She should never cry. When she was my wife, I would be sure never to give her reason to cry. She would have all the comforts of life, a devoted husband, and music. What else could a woman like Christine want?

I became upset with her the more instances of rehearsal we had. Her soul had hidden itself inside her heart as a clam hides its pearl. I could not pry it out of her. She kept apologizing to me for her lack of focus until I decided to take her home to her benefactress. Her eyes brightened immediately upon hearing this.

Now I hated both her benefactress and the boy. At least one would be gone in a couple of weeks.


	5. Chapter 5: Visit 4

I watched the two of them talking earlier, my little Christine and the boy. They kept reminiscing. That was all they ever did, talk about the sunshine-ridden past they had shared. If I ignored the boy's voice, I found it delightful to listen to.

I would take Christine far away from here, up north if necessary, but she will need time to adjust first. With hope, she will accept my offer immediately. I may need to shower her with gifts and promises to prove to her my devotion, but she will accept. She loves me enough to accept, surely. She must.

The two of them have never kissed, which shows that she may simply be indulging him. She had better not have feelings for him, or if she does, they must be shallow. Of course they must be! He whines all the time and his only redeeming factor is his wealth and beauty. He cries far too much as well, runs to his brother like a child. After all, the vicomte was little more than one. Christine acts with far more maturity, and when she is childish, it is adorable to watch, rather than annoying. There is no possibility of her loving a man who is little more than a boy.

Christine and I are bound by music, even if she does not love me, however small the possibility. She cannot leave my music. I know how strong a hold it can take on a person's heart. If she did leave, she would find herself restless. Who else can give her what I can? She is addicted to the purest forms of music, which only dwell within the both of us. It is what truly makes her return.

I am waiting now for her yet again. This is her fourth visit. The next will be her last, as the boy is leaving the same day. She seems to understand this, which is good. I hope she will not need to be coaxed. She is a good, smart girl and ought to understand that marrying me will be wonderful for her.

She has three more minutes to arrive. I cannot help but count the clock in anticipation. I have dressed the house in flowers for her again, as well as bought her a box of chocolates this time. She does not indulge often, but surely she must like to. I have already planned out splendid meals for while we are married. I would quite like a cook, but I do not trust anyone with Christine's food but myself. I want her to have the best of everything. She is also too humble to be spoiled. I can coddle her however much I desire without worrying about tainting her good qualities.

She is here!

...

I have locked her in her room. It is painful to write, but I have. The poor little angel! I simply did not want her to fall before my temper. I have far too much of one, and she should never experience it again.

As she had been eating dinner, I had managed to let slip my hopes to be married. I did not even mention her, though who else could it be? She had blanched and informed me that she still had no intention to ever marry, but that I was her dearest friend, and she liked our arrangement of her visits to see me. She offered to come twice a week, but by that time she realized my distress, and she sought out her room. I locked the door, and there she now remains.

She cries now. There is no more awful sound in this world than her tears. Her shuddering gasps for breath between sobs tear me apart from the inside out! The sight of her face soaked through would certainly bring me to my knees. Yet I could do nothing now save pace and contemplate.

Should I let her return home at all? I could simply keep her here. I could explain in great detail her life as my wife, all that she will have, the benefits of it. All these may convince her. Why wait for the boy to leave? Yes, we had a sort of agreement, Christine and I, but I would at least like her promise now, I think.

...

Once I had calmed myself, I unlocked her door. She emerged with hesitance, her bright eyes seeming to appear first.

"I'm sorry for upsetting you," she told me. "I didn't mean I don't like you. I like you very much. You know you are my dearest friend and I enjoy visiting you."

Her words melted my resolve. I fell to her feet, begging for forgiveness for shutting her away. She forgave me instantly, perfect angel that she is. I kissed her skirt in reverence.

She had said that she liked me. That was enough for marriage. It may take her some time to acquiesce, but again, I am patient. I am patient.

We spent the rest of the evening in music, as always, until she retired for bed. I had a sudden image of being beside her. How wonderful that would be! And yet I would never allow her to do such a thing. She must not sleep beside a corpse.

The entire night, I was restless. After all, what if she would not agree to be married? What if she did not love me? I cannot help thinking it even now!

In the morning, she was cheerful again. She smiled at me ten times, I believe. It is good that she has forgiven me.

She kept glancing at the clock, though, waiting to be brought back up for rehearsals. I grew irritated that she wanted to leave, and she must have known this, because she told me that she loved our time together, but she was simply nervous about being late. I accepted this excuse, though I was beginning to doubt it.

I would need to watch her more carefully from now on. I also needed to plan for her various reactions to my proposal, though I did hope she would be sensible enough to understand how good it was for her. After all, her only guardian was her benefactress. I could provide far more than that woman in every way. Besides, Christine needed to marry. Surely she didn't intend to become a spinster? My precious Christine, alone in the world? It was unthinkable!

She is smart enough to understand. She can be quite clever when she wants to be, especially with curiosity inspiring her, though there would be none now. Perhaps I could find a way to utilize her curiosity. Would surprises work?

Before we started to leave, Christine asked what I would do in her absence. I was quite upset by her seeming to not understand how terrible it was for me to be devoid of her. I told her I would compose, though. She told me to take care of myself while she was gone. She often said that. Then she added that she worries about me.

I fell to her feet in worship of her for caring about her poor Erik. I made her understand that she was the most wonderful person who ever existed. She even cried a little with me, the angel!

How I love her! I cannot describe it. Soon I will never be without her, though, very soon! That boy will leave the very same day she will return for the last time.

Now I need only to finish my Don Juan Triumphant.


	6. Chapter 6: The Descent

She lost her ring. I have found it. I watch it glow in the candlelight. It is as pure as I could purchase without being malleable.

It is purer than her. That is why it fell from her finger.

The sky was beautiful tonight. It was faintly clouded, like wisps of smoke. The stars attempted to shine through the city glow, and a few desperate ones managed. The moon was cut like glass.

The purest music and poetry is composed of pain. I should know.

The sky had been beautiful tonight, then shattered. Can I write it now? Can I admit it? I will try. I must try.

She

She does

S

She does n

She does not

She

She does not

Sh

She does

She does not love

She does n

She does not love me

She does not love me

She does not love me

She does not love me!

All of it had been a lie! She has discarded my ring, soiled her lips with another's, as if I have no heart at all! Does she not know that I follow her, unable to be separated from her? Does she not know she is all I have? Does she not understand how desperately I love her?

Even now I love her. At least she pities me still. She cries "poor Erik!" then weeps for fear I will be cruel to her. Imagine! How could she think such a thing? Why would I hurt her? I love her! I love her more than anything! She is all I love! Loving music is loving a thing, a thing that can give me little more than brief contentment. Christine gives me _joy_... gave me joy...

I will have her any way that I can. I will be married to her in life or death. She gets to decide, though. If she wants to decide my fate, then it is in her precious hands. She can kill me if she chooses, along with a good portion of the opera house. I wish it were more, but only so much gunpowder can be stored.

Tomorrow night, she will perform. She will perform for _me_! That wretched boy who stole her lips is going to prepare an escape for them both. Oh, but he is a fool! I hope to find a chance to kill him. Had he not come along, why, Christine may love me! She will! She loves the music, she admitted to it, and she pities its creator, surely that is enough? It is, it is! We will be married yet!

I cannot lose her. Even tainted as she is now, she is all I have in the world. I want her to never leave me. I will still be a perfect husband to her, but now I know she will need to be coerced. It is terrible to think of bending her mind, and yet it will have to be done. There is nothing else to do. I cannot return to how things were before she came, radiating love and kindness.

Would she rather die than marry me, though? Would she? She must like me a little! She must! She must! How could she have returned so often had she not? There must have been _something!_

Had she not lost the ring I might be more forgiving. Had she not given the boy her lips I would not give her such a decision. Now she will have to endure what happens when a person breaks a promise to Erik. My wrath will be sated when she is mine, and I will forgive her entirely, but now I cannot help but let Erik rage against the world!

I will let her sing Faust. Yes, and I will kidnap her from the stage! How that will excite Paris, before they die the following night, if that is my dear little Christine's choice. I hope it is not, but at least it has some benefits.

I want to take her now. I want to tell her about all the beauty she has thrown away by betraying me. I want her to know how I feel, and yet I hope she will never experience such pain as this! It is as if she is putting a screw through my heart, twisting it through my body. Oh, but that is not right! A red-hot screw that is burning and spitting as it turns into me! It has not ceased turning since she cried out in fear and sought the boy to comfort her. I die to write it! I wish I were dead!

There will be no ceremony at the Madeleine now. Not like I had wanted. There will be a little one here, beneath the earth. She will swear herself to me, and only me, and then, if she proves herself to be honest and good, as she must still be, I will find a place above the earth for her to dwell. We will have dinners together every night, and read, and play games together like chess. We will pretend nothing has happened! She will love me! Oh, please, she must love me!

It was going to be so beautiful. Now she has ruined it. She has destroyed the perfect life I had prepared for her, and now I must patch it up as best I can. I am very skilled at that.

My little Christine. My sweet little Christine, why has she done this? Why has she lied? Why has she smiled when all she feels is fear when she looks at me? I wear a mask now! I am! It is the most uncomfortable thing, yet necessary! I will wear it every day of our marriage if it will make her love me! I will tear myself apart for her love!

Oh, how sanely I write! Words cannot express what I feel. Nothing can. I fear I may break my pen in the attempt, though.

I would quite like to go murder the boy now, but I would rather find a way for the Siren to do it. She would do a fine job with him. Then again, if I could guide him into the torture chamber, what fun that would be! I cannot help but laugh at the thought of it. I laugh now! How can I laugh when I am in agony? Yet I do, I do! I can taste the bitterness of it in my mouth.

Oh, now I am forgetting the daroga. I hate that man. I can hardly imagine that we were once friends! Now he is nothing but troublesome. He is even more curious than Christine, and it surprises me that I or the siren have not killed him. He will surely pry into my private matters again. If he does, I fear I may have to kill him, too. It is his own fault if he ends up cold and dead. He deserves it for meddling with Erik.

I am glad I am allowing Christine another day. Had I taken her down here in my fury, I fear I could have done her harm before I had time to consider that it is not truly her fault. The boy has taken her from me. She is devoted enough to want to sing for _me_ tomorrow, which will be her last time. She is devoted, therefore she understands to whom she belongs. She has not fallen fully, only been dragged down.

I will make her understand what a marriage to me means, as well as offer up the alternative. I am quite merciful to permit her a decision. Perhaps it is because I love her. How I love her still!

How funny it is! I do not care which choice she makes so long as she is mine. We will be married in life or death by the turn of her pretty hands!

I do not care anymore.


	7. Chapter 7: Choose

she will not choose

why will she not choose

i am waiting for her to turn those instruments of death and she will not

she will not

i just want it all to be done with all this pain

i want it to be gone

gone

gone

like we all will be if only she would put us out of our misery

gone Paris

gone vicomte

gone Persian

gone Christine

gone Erik

and the pain will be gone


	8. Chapter 8: Fin

She chose me.

She chose me. She turned the scorpion, she chose me.

But she is not here now. I do not know where she is. She can go wherever she wants now, anywhere, anywhere, be free and happy to do whatever she pleases. She is happy.

The whole of it was a dream, the most wonderful dream. I came home to her after doing as she had begged me, and I was feeling pleased with myself for allowing her such a favor. I was blind. I realize now that I was blind.

I came inside, and there she was, standing with all the resignation of one waiting for an execution. Her beautiful blue eyes met mine, and I trembled under her gaze. In my head, I called her my Christine, because she was mine. She was a real, living bride, waiting for me. She was mine. Her gold hair like the sun, her bright blue eyes, her white little hands, even every one of her freckles, all were mine.

What was she waiting for, though? She shut her eyes and bowed her head ever so slightly, offering her forehead to me.

I was too overwhelmed by the gift to even comprehend what she was doing, nor understand what it would do to me. I had never even considered such a thing in all my life.

She was so soft and warm. I knew my lips were hideous, frail and lifeless, but I was not thinking of her. I had never thought of her before, until I pressed my unworthy lips to her forehead.

My knees gave way. I could not stand after being given that from her. I began to weep. I wept openly and without restraint.

Then I looked up and saw Christine, all of Christine, with her blue eyes overflowing for me. She sank to the floor with me, crying with me, and whispered my name with all the love and pity in her heart.

"Poor Erik..."

I felt something shatter within me. I could hear it. It caused me pain, great pain, like hot coals. I knew it would remain in my heart as long as she was kept here. I simply knew it. How it burned!

I told her that she was free. The child didn't understand! She blinked at me, her eyes glassy. I tried again, giving her the ring as I did so. She stared down at it in wonder.

I made my requests for my burial, as now I had someone who loved me enough to bury me. I was still her friend, was I not? Her poor Erik?

I freed the boy for her. They kissed in front of me, and it made me happy. I cannot describe how, but it made me happy.

Then she

Then

Then she kissed me.

She kissed me, she kissed me, she kissed me! Just on my forehead, the angel kissed me! The angel kissed me!

Then they left, but I knew she would come back when I was dead.

I am happy to die now. She will come to see my corpse, bury me, maybe even lay flowers on my grave. Maybe.

I hope she goes home to Sweden. I hope she has everything she wants, always.

Perhaps I should leave this for her, so that she may remember me, should she want to. If not, she can burn it. I have no use for memories in death.

I am going to visit the Persian now to tell him all that has happened. Perhaps he will bury me, too...

* * *

My ha _nd wil_ l _not w_ rite cl _early_ no _w_. I _a_ m w _ai_ tin _g_ on _de_ ath. _H_ e ta _ke_ s _t_ oo l _o_ ng f _or_ w _illin_ g vic _tim_ s.

I _ca_ n se _e_ Ch _ri_ sti _ne_ so _m_ e _tim_ es, he _r_ f _i_ g _ur_ e ou _tl_ ine _d_ in gold. S _h_ e si _ng_ s t _o_ _m_ e wh _e_ n _I_ cl _os_ e m _y_ _ey_ es. I _h_ o _p_ e th _e_ _ne_ xt t _im_ e the _y_ _sh_ ut _w_ i _l_ l be _th_ e l _as_ t, b _u_ t th _en_ it _i_ s no _t_.

 _A_ t le _as_ t I _ca_ n he _a_ r h _er_ s _in_ g. M _ay_ be He _l_ l is a d _ar_ k pi _t_ , a _nd_ I c _a_ n _lo_ ok up _an_ d se _e_ her ab _ov_ e _m_ e in t _he_ lig _h_ t.

I ca _n_ fe _el_ h _e_ r kis _s_ eve _ry_ _ti_ me I _se_ e her _h_ er _e_. I ca _nn_ ot t _el_ l if sh _e_ is _vi_ si _ti_ ng or I _a_ m h _al_ lu _ci_ natin _g_ , b _u_ t it _do_ es not ma _t_ t _er_. S _he_ is _al_ w _ay_ s w _it_ h _m_ e.

I lo _v_ e her.


End file.
